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She’s really a lovely animal when she grows weary enough to quit being a nit brain.
But as my arms encircle the mock-Gryfala, her companion looks me right in the eye, and clear as if we could communicate mind-to-mind, I read its thoughts: What she can’t see won’t hurt her—but it can hurt you. It sinks its teeth into my arm.
“Meesahrah,” Breslin’s voice is strained with effort, “please, walk on.” Nothing happens. “Meesahrah? Walk. On.” ...Still nothing. Kota’s tags jingle and her ear knocks my hand as she cocks her head. Breslin’s voice explodes. “THROW RUG!” The wagon gives a half-hearted heave.
He’s handing me a towel that I can slide under myself when he clarifies—and by that, I mean exclaims in horror—“Your insides are shedding?”
He pats my leg before he slides his hold to my hip, anchoring his hand. “I don’t have to. You already prefer the superior alternative. You just want to fight the bit.” “Gotta stop,” I warn him weakly, no willpower around him. “Bickering is foreplay.” “Only with you. Otherwise I’d have married Meesahrah.”
“I’m going to lower you as a puppy sacrifice now. Prepare yourself.”
